


memories made in the coldest winter (goodbye my friend)

by wearethenorth



Series: with great power [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Multi, and the other avengers, but im gonna be in new york for two weeks so i can't post until i come back, that one superhero au where sansa stark kicks ass, yesss i started the prequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 16:05:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1947459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethenorth/pseuds/wearethenorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t want to kill anybody,” she says, and it’s the truth. “I just don’t like bullies.”</p><p>“Well,” he says, finally looking up at her. There’s a smile on his old and weathered face, and Sansa’s lips twitch in response. “There are so many big men fighting this war already. Maybe what we really need is a woman.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	memories made in the coldest winter (goodbye my friend)

“Sergeant Willas H. Tyrell of the 107th, reporting for duty.”

Sansa feels bile rising at the back of her throat as she sees him in his olive-green uniform. (The pain in her jaw from that asshole’s fist is a dull ache now compared to the pain in her heart, the pain that’s lingered there since she saw the draft papers in the mail before he did. She never mentioned it to him, pretended she believed him when he said he’d gone out and enlisted with a couple of friends from work, but that night, when he had fallen asleep, she sobbed quietly into her pillow.) “When do you ship out?”

“Sansa—“

“ _When_?”

Willas sighs and tucks her under his arm, placing a chaste kiss on her forehead. He always did little things like that, her Willas. Willas, who never let his hands wander, never kissed her on the mouth, except for that one time when she had just turned eighteen and he smeared chocolate ice cream all over her cheeks. Kind, gentle, shy Willas who was vehemently against her running away from her Aunt Lysa to be with him, a lesser (her Aunt’s words), poorer boy with no connections and no way to make a name for himself.

“Tomorrow,” he says, and she shudders. “This was my choice, Sansa.”

 _It wasn’t_ , Sansa thinks, but Willas is shoving a paper in her shaking hands and blabbering on about the future, so she pushes that ache to the back of her mind and smiles for him, because she knows that’s what he wants to see.

Tywin Lannister’s demonstration knocks the breath out of Willas—“Flying cars, Sansa, imagine that!”—but she can only manage to give him a small smile.

From the corner of her eye, she can see an enlistment center, and Sansa remembers the crunch of gravel beneath her hands as she was tossed out of the one a couple blocks away from their tiny little Brooklyn apartment.

That was the first time she had tried to enlist when she found out about Willas’ draft.

The second time had been in Queens, and she had made it as far as the physical room before one of the nurses gaped at her and ushered her out before the doctor returned.

“It’s not safe,” the shorter girl—Jeyne, she introduced herself—insisted as she guided Sansa out the back door. “Don’t you know what they do to girls who masquerade as men?”

That hadn’t stopped Sansa from her third try on Coney Island, while Willas had been too distracted by the sights to notice her slipping away.

Sansa had ended up with bruised arms as the army officers had hauled her out, tossing her at Willas’ feet. Her papers had fluttered to the floor before her eyes, 3F stamped on the front, and her dead brother’s name scribbled in her most illegible handwriting. She remembers looking away so she wouldn’t see the hurt in his eyes.

“ _You just don’t know when to give up, do you?”_

The officer’s words ring in her ears as she slips her hand out of Willas’ and makes her way through the crowds. Sansa doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s wearing women’s clothes and she doesn’t have her hair hidden under a cap like last time. They’ll throw her out this time for sure. But she doesn’t stop until she’s inside, and even then, it’s only because Willas’ fingers close around her wrist.

“Hey,” he says, and when she turns, he’s smiling. “We were gonna go dancing, remember?”

Willas doesn’t realize where they’re standing—and she wants to cry because he’s focused so intently on her and only her—until another man in his uniform brushes past them and gives him a mock-salute. He ignores the man.

“ _Sansa,_ ” he frowns. “You really gonna do this again?”

He never stops her, though she knows he wants to. They’ve heard stories about women who try to enlist and are beaten and brutalized for their troubles. Stories that make Willas cringe and Sansa’s eyes harden. He wants to protect her from that, but he knows the only thing Sansa ever needed protection from was herself.

“It’s a fair,” she says, shrugging off his hand. “I’m gonna try my luck.”

“Like this?” He gives her skirt a pointed look. “They’re gonna catch you,” he says.

“I know you think I can’t do this—“

“This isn’t a back alley fight with some punk who tried to take a peak down your dress, Sansa. This is war!”

She scowls at him. “I know it’s a war! My father died in one _just like this_ , if you don’t recall!”

Willas cringes, but doesn’t relent. “What are you gonna do? There’s so many other important jobs.”

“Like what? Writing letters and taking calls? Working at a factory when you’re across the world getting yourself killed?”

“Yes!”

“There are men laying down their lives!”

_You’re laying down your life._

“I’ve got _no right_ to do any less than them. That’s what you don’t understand. This isn’t about me.”

He rolls his eyes exasperatedly. “’Cause you got nothing to prove, right?”

Sansa bites her lip to keep from crying at the fondness in his gaze.

“Just…” Willas sighs. “Just come back home with me, please? We’ll figure this out, Sansa. Just like we always do.”

He looks so tired in that moment that she can’t help but concede, unaware that she was being watched the entire time.

She wakes the next morning to an empty bed save for a small letter on her nightstand from Willas.

“ _I figured it out_ ,” it says in his curly handwriting. “ _Don’t do anything stupid until I get back_.”

It was signed with “ _Always yours, Willas Tyrell”_ and she hurls the paper away from her in frustration.

“Liar!” She sits back down on the bed and puts her head in her hands, breathing deeply for a moment and willing herself not to cry.

She hears a knock on her front door moments later. Quickly, she dries her eyes and goes to answer it.

“Hel—“ Sansa pauses at the sight of the man before her. “Hello.”

“Good morning,” the man replies with a smile, and she gawks at his obvious German accent. “Are you Sansa Stark?”

“I am.”

“Very good. If you would come with me.”

She’s so stunned, she finds herself following him without actually realizing it.

“Where are we going?” Sansa asks, curiosity gnawing at her. She freezes at the sight of the car before her apartment building.

“I’m here to give you a chance,” the man smiles kindly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I understand your husband was transported to England today.”

She’s in the car before he actually asks her to get in.

“Where are you from?” She asks when the driver pulls away.

“Queens,” he says simply. “Before that, Germany. And you?”

He pulls out a couple of papers from his pocket, and Sansa blanches.

“Is it Paramus? Buffalo?”

“Those aren’t—“

“If I was here to arrest you, Miss Stark, you’d know it.”

She relaxes with a sigh. “Brooklyn.”

“Good, good. And Robb, I presume was your brother?”

Sansa presses her lips together. “Yes.”

“How did he die?”

“He was in Pearl Harbor when it was hit.”

“And your parents?”

“Died in a fire when I was little. Been living with my aunt until a couple years ago.”

“Hmm,” he writes something on a notepad she didn’t notice he had in his hand. “So you want to go overseas. Kill some Nazis.”

She bristles at his mocking tone.

“I don’t want to kill anybody,” she says, and it’s the truth. “I just don’t like bullies.”

“Well,” he says, finally looking up at her. There’s a smile on his old and weathered face, and Sansa’s lips twitch in response. “There are so many big men fighting this war already. Maybe what we really need is a woman.”


End file.
